Rock Star Romance: Dan (Contemporary New Adult Rockstar Bad Boy Romance) (Hard Rock Star Series Book 4) (89 page)

****

Two days later, Rachel had formally quit her job, not even
giving notice, and submitting a resignation letter that, if formal and
moderately polite, at least provided some food for thought to any of the people
in HR who might have actually concerned themselves with a disaffected employee.
She had not given specific reasons for why she was leaving so abruptly; to
Rachel’s mind, the fewer people who knew about her unexpected windfall, the
better. But the question of just who had sent her the money, why they had sent
it to her, continued to plague her in the back of her mind, even as she went
about putting plans into place to not only protect it, but to make it last as
long as humanly possible.

She had gone into the bank the same day and spoke to a
manager who had been unable to discover the source of the transfer—it had been
done anonymously. The trail was worse than cold; the manager told her that
deliberate steps had been taken to obscure the identity of whoever had sent the
transfer into her bank account. “Whoever gave you this money sure doesn’t want
anyone to know it was them,” he had said, shaking his head at the vagaries of
the wealthy.

Rachel decided to forego the pursuit of her mysterious
benefactor for the time being. When the bank manager had suggested that she
work with the bank’s wealth management division, she was more than happy to go
along with his idea, knowing that while she had ample experience making twenty
dollars last for a week, she had very little notion of how to live with
millions. She knew that decisions would have to be made—whether to invest, what
to invest in, how much money she really needed to live every year, all the
myriad of choices that came along with a sudden windfall. Taxes, charities,
debts to be paid off; did she want to buy a house, since she had the money to
pay for it outright? Did she want to get a new car to replace the old jalopy
she had scrimped to purchase when her first car had finally, irrevocably died?

Her phone rang as Rachel was getting out of her old, worn
out car, preparing to walk into the bank to talk to someone about a safe, long-term
investment strategy. She dug her phone out of her purse, glancing at the number
flashing across the screen. It wasn’t a complete number; it was only four
digits long. She shook her head and moved out of the flow of traffic, deciding
that she would just answer it. If it was a telemarketer or scammer, at least
she would know for sure. “Hello?”

There was a crackle of interference on the line, a
high-pitched tone that nearly made Rachel pull the phone away from her ear, and
then a distorted voice.
“That money doesn’t
belong to you. We’re going to get it back.” She turned her head, staring at the
phone for a moment in mute shock.

“What money? Who are you?” Her mind flip-flopped between
confusion, anger and fear. In an instant, she realized that whoever had called
her, they were almost certainly referring to the anonymous transfer into her
account.

“You got money that you didn’t deserve,” said the distorted
voice on the other end of the line. “We’re going to get it back. We know where
you are at all times.” The call cut out, and for a moment, Rachel wondered if
it was intentional or accidental. Her hand shook and she waited for a moment to
see if the number would flash on her screen again. There was nothing. Rattled,
looking around her—remembering what the person on the other end of the line had
said about knowing where she was at all times—Rachel slipped her phone back
into her purse and swallowed against the tight, dry feeling in her throat,
gathering up what little composure she had at her command before she walked
towards the entrance of the bank.

She sat through the meeting, even though her mind was
spinning from the phone call she had received. Logic dictated that Rachel
should call the police, but what exactly could she tell them?
“Some strange
person with a distorted voice and an invalid number called me and said that
they were going to get their money back from me.”
Not only would there be
nothing for them to really go on, but Rachel suspected that they wouldn’t even
take it seriously. She signed the papers after barely reading them, realizing
that she should have taken the time to read the fine print.

As she left the bank, she was so consumed with confusion
and fear that she didn’t notice a man standing off to the side, watching the
entrance. Rachel moved towards her car, looking at the ground, trying to make
sense of what had happened—not only the sudden wealth, but the even more recent
fact that apparently someone didn’t want her to have it—and didn’t see the man
slowly starting to walk in her direction. She heard the sound of idle
whistling, but didn’t pay any attention to it as she neared her car, trying to
decide where she should go next—whether it should be home, or somewhere public.
“We know where you are at all times,”
the voice had said. Presumably, as
long as she was in public, she was at least relatively safe; she didn’t think
that anyone would be stupid enough to grab her where there might be witnesses.

She turned the key in her lock and suddenly felt a hand on
her shoulder. Rachel wheeled around, bringing her hands up, holding her keys
tightly in her right hand to provide herself, instinctively, with something
that had a little more heft than her fist itself. Her heart was pounding in her
chest as her gaze fell on the man standing behind her: tall and muscular,
towering over her, his eyes were covered by a thick pair of dark sunglasses,
his face half-hidden behind dark brown hair that fell nearly to his shoulders.
He was dressed in jeans, a tee shirt, and a hooded sweater, all carefully nondescript,
in washed-out colors.

Rachel backed up until she collided with the door of her
car, trying to decide whether it would be better to try and get in—potentially
putting the car between herself and the stranger—or to cry out for help,
struggle, call attention to herself. Before she could decide, the man smiled
slowly. “You’re a woman with a big load of trouble on your hands, and you let
me nearly get the drop on you—not the best strategy.” The man’s voice was light
and low, almost gravelly to her ears, rippling with an Irish accent that made
him sound even more amused than Rachel thought he actually was.

“I—who are you? What do you know about my troubles?” she
looked around quickly, to see if there was anyone loitering in the parking lot
at the bank who might come to her aid; it was almost suspiciously empty, just
one or two people walking with self-absorbed determination towards the entrance
or back to their cars.

“Name’s Dylan,” the man said. “As for what I know about
your troubles: I know you probably got a phone call not too long ago that you
have no idea how to trace, regarding a very large sum of money you recently
came into.” Rachel stared at him in shock;
how could he possibly know what’s
going on
?

“You—were you the one—” she shook her head, looking around
in panic again, reflexively grabbing at her car door.

“No, Love. I’m not the one who’s after you. But I know who
is—and you’re going to need me around. I got dropped off here to wait for you
to come out, so I don’t have a car to my name, and you don’t really need to be
driving anywhere alone just now. So how’s about you unlock the car, let me in,
and crawl over to the passenger side; then you can tell me where we’re going.”
For a long moment, Rachel considered refusing. She looked around again, but
there was no one around. They were alone in the parking lot. She had her
phone—but if this Dylan person had bad intentions for her, she doubted he would
let her get a call out to anyone.
If he had bad intentions, he wouldn’t have
even let me stand here this long, he’d probably have just grabbed me… he did
say he was dropped off… how stupid do you have to be to take someone’s words at
face value when you’ve already been threatened by someone else?
She took a
deep breath.

“Can I make a phone call first?” she asked. Dylan raised
one dark eyebrow from behind the sunglasses he wore.

“Don’t see as it would change anything. I’d recommend
against calling the police—the folks who are after you are in pretty deep with
them, and at best you won’t be taken seriously.” Rachel swallowed. Should she
trust him at all? “I swear to you, Rachel, I’m here to help; I’m not going to
get you into the car and cart you off to someone else. Get in, tell me where
we’re going, and that is precisely where I’ll take you.” Rachel hesitated a
moment longer, trying to decide to what extent—if any—she could trust the
stranger. She sighed; he had her blocked off. She was within arm’s reach.
Rachel took a deep breath and turned her back to Dylan, opening the car door
and crawling from the driver’s side to the passenger side.

Dylan swung into the driver’s side and snatched up the keys
from Rachel’s nervous hands, inserting one into the ignition and turning it. As
the car roared to life, Rachel pulled the seatbelt around, glancing at Dylan as
misgivings filled her mind. “So, tell me where we’re going, Love.”

****

Rachel paced back and forth along the rug in her tiny
living room, able to feel Dylan’s gaze on her but, for the moment, caring very
little about his presence. “Do you want something to eat?” He asked her.

Rachel stopped, turning slightly to look at the man sitting
on the couch, staring up at her with a slightly sardonic smile curving his
lips. “What?”

Dylan shrugged, stretching his arms over his head, glancing
around the room. “I asked if you wanted something to eat. Worrying is hungry
work.” He stood in a quick, fluid movement that made Rachel take a few startled
steps backward, glancing at her before he walked towards the kitchen. For a
moment, she simply stared at his back, her mouth slightly open in shock. He had
had the audacity to accost her in a parking lot, to bully her into giving him
her car keys, and when they had arrived at her apartment, he had taken her keys
with him, holding a hand out as they approached her door to forestall her. He
had walked right into her house after unlocking the door and left her standing
outside before beckoning her in behind him.

“What are you doing?”

Dylan turned, one dark eyebrow raised as he glanced at her.
He had taken the sunglasses off when they came into the apartment; he had
wide-set, dark hazel eyes that seemed entirely too full of knowledge for Rachel
to comfortably meet them. “Getting something to eat. I thought I’d get you
something as well—cranky women tend to be hungry women.”

Rachel crossed her arms over her chest as the blood rushed
into her cheeks.
“I am not a cranky woman!”
she said, knowing she sounded petulant but unable to help herself. “Even if I
was cranky, don’t you think mysterious threatening phone calls and random strangers
who force you into your car and take your keys are perfectly good reasons?”

Dylan leaned against her fridge, his gaze traveling up and
down over her body, taking her in.
“I didn’t
force you into your car,” he said slowly. “I advised you very strongly to get
in your car and let me drive us to wherever you wanted to go.”

Rachel pressed her lips together, taking a deep breath.
“You’re still a random stranger and you—you bullied me into doing what you
wanted.” She scowled at him, resenting herself for going along with it and
resenting him for being there, looking completely unfazed by her irritation.

“That tends to come with the territory of being hired to
protect someone. And we’re all random strangers ‘til we get to know one
another.”

“Stop being so reasonable!” Rachel’s hands clenched into
fists. “What do you mean hired to protect someone?”

Dylan pulled himself back into an upright position, turning
away from her and opening the fridge. He leaned in, and Rachel heard the sound
of the fridge’s contents moving around, shuffling plastic and shifting glass on
metal racks. “This looks promising,” Dylan said, standing up once more and
producing a Tupperware container full of leftover steak tips and mushrooms. He
looked around and plucked a wrapped up baguette from the top of the fridge
where Rachel had left it.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, losing her
instinctive fear as her anger rose up.

“I don’t actually have to, you know,” Dylan pointed out. He
moved to the counter, reaching for the knife block with one hand, pulling a
cutting board down onto the counter with the other. “There’s enough here for
two; sure you’re not hungry?”

Rachel closed her eyes, her fists tightening convulsively
for a moment before she took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
“How the hell is this my life?” she asked no one in
particular, opening her eyes and looking up at the ceiling.

“You got lucky; some people don’t appreciate it when others
catch a bit of luck. And here we are.” Rachel tore her gaze from the ceiling and
watched as Dylan nonchalantly cut the loaf of bread in half. He cracked the
seal on the Tupperware container and opened the microwave door, putting the
steak tips and mushrooms into the box with the ease of practice. Rachel took a
few steps into the kitchen, pushing Dylan aside; he shifted away from the
counter, and she turned towards the fridge once more, withdrawing a packet of
provolone cheese.

“So you’re not going to tell me anything?” she said, not
even looking at him as she arranged the slices along the halves of the loaf.

“I didn’t say that, now did I? I said I don’t have to tell
you anything.”

Rachel sighed. The microwave beeped and she ruthlessly
punched the door open button, snatching up the Tupperware container and pulling
the lid the rest of the way off. “What will it take for you to tell me what the
hell is going on?” She finally looked at him; Dylan was smiling slightly,
watching her with a look in his eyes she wasn’t sure she liked.

“Every man has a price,” he said.

Rachel held his glance for a moment longer and turned her
attention back onto the food, reaching blindly to pull the silverware drawer
open and taking out a fork. She arranged the leftover meat and vegetables on
top of the cheese, put one half of the loaf on top of the other, and cut
through the sandwich in a few fast movements, snatching up one half and
retreating back into the living room. Dylan followed her into the living room
and sat down with the other half of the sandwich and they both ate in silence.

“Let me get this straight,” she said, licking her fingers
and brushing the crumbs off of her lap. “If I want to know who’s threatening
me, who hired you, and why anyone has the slightest interest in keeping me
alive, I have to
pay
you?”

“I seem to recall that you have a lot more money than
you’re used to having—a fair windfall. I don’t think you’ll miss a thousand or
so, do you?”

“A thousand or so,” Rachel said, looking at him levelly.
“How exactly are you supposed to keep me safe if I don’t know who you’re
keeping me safe from?”

“You don’t need to know; not right now. If the time comes
when it’s necessary to your survival to know who it is, then in accordance with
the job I was hired to do, I’ll tell you. Consider the thousand an expediting
fee.”

Rachel turned her mind onto the problem; she had never
lacked for intelligence—in spite of her dead-end career, she had always been
relatively quick on the uptake, and if it weren’t for the multiple shocks of
the day, she cherished the thought that she probably would have put together
more of the situation sooner.
“Let me see how
much of this I can figure out on my own,” she said, eyeing the man a few feet
away from her. “I somehow became the beneficiary of a large chunk of money that
someone took great pains to send to me anonymously.” Dylan nodded. “Some other
people—you won’t tell me who—are upset that I got this money and want to take
it from me.” He nodded again. “Someone else hired you to keep me from getting
killed.”

“I’ll give you this for free: the same person who gave you
the money hired me.”

Rachel thought for a long moment. “Why on earth would
someone give me a boatload of money if they knew they’d also have to hire
someone to protect me for having it?”

Dylan shrugged, still smiling faintly.
“Maybe they thought you deserved it. Maybe they like you.
It’s not really a question I asked. I was told to keep you alive, to make sure
the money doesn’t get taken from you.”

“How much are they paying you?”

Dylan chuckled.
“If I’m
not going to tell you who they are, how do you think you’ll convince me to tell
you how much they’re paying?”

“How much money do you want for that?” Rachel raised an
eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. Dylan’s smile spread over his face.

“That piece of information isn’t for sale, Love. Besides,
you’d be a piss-poor investment for my client if you were the type to fritter
your money away so easily.”

Rachel stood.
“Get out of
my house,” she said, keeping her voice calm with an effort.

“Can’t do that—orders. I don’t take payment from someone
without doing the job.”

“I don’t even get a say in this? What if I leave?”

“Then I will be leaving with you.”

“You can’t follow me everywhere.”

“I can follow you anywhere that matters.”

Rachel frowned.
“What’s
that supposed to mean?”

Dylan shrugged.
“You’re
unlikely to be assaulted in the bathroom. One window, one door—you’re on the
third floor so it’d be tough for someone to climb up and get to you there.”

“My whole apartment is on the third floor; wouldn’t my
bedroom be just as unlikely?”

Dylan smiled, his lips twitching, his dark eyes gleaming
with suppressed laughter.
“Are you asking if I
would follow you into your bedroom?” Rachel’s blood rushed to her face. “The
answer is yes; your bedroom’s a much larger space than your bathroom. Sure
they’d have to climb to get at you easily, but there’s that convenient balcony
off the side. Besides, if you’re in your bedroom, chances are fair you’re
sleeping—easy to sneak up on you.”

“They said…” Rachel pressed her lips together, feeling a
spurt of fear. “They said that they know where I am at all times.” She glanced
at Dylan, swallowing against the dry, tight feeling in her throat.

“That they do,” Dylan agreed. “Which is why I’m here. They
know I’m here—that will have put them off their strategy for a little while.
For the moment, you’re safe.”

“Can’t I just—I don’t know—give them the money? I mean…”
she licked her lips. “I’m starting to think that quitting my job was a huge
mistake.” Rachel cringed.

“That dead-end thing? Of course you should have quit!
You’re a smart, beautiful girl and shouldn’t settle for such a thankless job.”
Rachel felt her cheeks warming up again at the words ‘smart’ and ‘beautiful.’
He shrugged. “Why should you give up the money? It’s not like the people who
want it deserve it any more than you do.”

“Do they deserve it any less?”

Dylan’s gaze shifted off of her face. “That would give you
a hint,” he said. “I told you I’m not going to tell you anything about them
unless it’s necessary to keep you alive, or unless you pay me a thousand
dollars.”

Rachel slid her tongue over her teeth, considering. “So,”
she said, glancing around her apartment; it looked smaller than usual with
Dylan sitting only a few feet away from her. “What do we do now?”

Dylan shrugged. “It’s your life, Love—I’m just guarding it
for you.”

“But I can’t leave.”

“You can leave, but I’ll leave with you.”

“What if I had a date?” Rachel smirked.

Dylan tilted his head to the side slightly. “
Do
you?”

Rachel blushed once more. “If I did. What—I mean…” she
gestured to him.

“Then I would go with you, introduce myself as your
bodyguard, and give you a little privacy.”

“Right, because showing up with a huge, good-looking guy
isn’t going to put anyone off.”

Dylan’s eyes glimmered. “When your life’s in danger, I
don’t think dating should be at the top of your priorities list. But I thank
you for the compliment.”

Rachel stood, deciding abruptly that she needed to use the
bathroom. She turned and pretended to ignore Dylan while her heart beat a
little faster in her chest, her cheeks burning.
You really only have his
word for it that he’s here to help you,
she thought.
He could be keeping
you in one place until whoever’s coming after you manages to get here.
Rachel sat on the ledge of the bathtub, staring at the closed door. Somehow she
didn’t think it was likely that she could find a way to get through the front
door of her apartment without Dylan noticing.

She heard movement from the living room; the groan of the
couch, footfalls in the hallway leading to the bathroom and her bedroom next to
it. Rachel sighed. In less than a week, her life had gone from one form of hell
to another, it seemed. She no longer had to worry about waking up early to go
to a job that would never get any better. But now, even though she was
financially independent, someone decided that they wanted her newly found
fortune. She couldn’t call the cops; she didn’t know the extent to which she
could trust Dylan, but she reasoned that anyone who was going to go through the
kind of trouble of making threatening phone calls from carefully concealed
numbers probably wouldn’t balk—if they had the means—at keeping the police from
investigating the situation.

But what do I really know about the situation?
She knew that she had two million dollars to her name. She
knew that Dylan had showed up after the phone call, and seemed to know more
about the situation than she did. She knew that people didn’t typically give
away millions of dollars without good reason. She knew that she was probably in
danger; whoever had called her had made it clear that they were determined.

Suddenly, she heard a sound--a crunching, groaning,
cracking sound.

“Stay put,” Dylan said through the door. Rachel’s heart
started beating faster. A fleeting temptation to follow him flitted through her
mind. She heard his steps retreating down the hall, away from her. Rachel
looked around the bathroom. There wasn’t much that could serve as a realistic
weapon for her; the towel rack didn’t appear very solid, and none of her
toiletries were in particularly heavy packaging. Rachel swallowed.